


They Buried Us Not Knowing That We Are Seeds

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Biblical References, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Murder, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family Issues, God Complex, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Murder Family, Non-Chronological, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Psychological Trauma, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Bonding, Teen Pregnancy, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, indoctrination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Like every great Prophet in his time, Joseph found all his Apostles spontaneously, here and there and everywhere, some in the gutter, some on the precipice, some broken, some on the streets, some along the way, all while traversing through the vast, desolate desert of life. Whatever the method was, though - he made it his personal mission to bring them together and unify them under God's light. His light.





	1. Chapter 1

ｊ      ａ      ｃ      ｏ      ｂ

✞

Ghosts in a Jar

 __ __

* * *

 

 

 

Joseph knew all too well Jacob wouldn’t come back from the war quite the same.

His older brother, his role model, the dyed-in-the-bone patriot, loud and clear.

Quite obnoxious almost, on the basis of how he loved his country.

America and all things American - probably his first idol.

First to enlist as soon as he could, maybe to fight.

Maybe to have a reason to escape.

Georgia, their family.

All the memories.

The bullshit and the drama, as he said.

Travel as far as he could, the other side of the planet.

To some far away country, to battle demons he brought from home.

Maybe gain a few more along the way, alongside wounds and scars and burn marks.

Jacob’s arms were riddled with them when stepped down from tha plane in his uniform.

His travelling bag swung over shoulder, only the most basic nessecities a soldier needs.

He looked at least a decade older now - then again, Jacob always seemed old for his age.

 

 

 

 

He had to grow up earlier then any of them - and the signs were visible now in all his wrinkles.

__

 

 

 

Joseph was waiting for him in their old family home, now empty, it’s been years since mother and father died and the walls still bore the eerie scent of past evenings gone wrong and hushed crying in the corners of abandoned children’s rooms - old, tattered furniture and family pictures dusty from time and the lack of care - a framed, rather tacky portrait of the virgin Mary cradling in the baby Jesus above the kitchen counter alongside a cracked flower vase filled with dried roses, blacked and sickly againts a broken window riddled with empty liqour bottles - their parents were both rampant alcoholics, that was their sin outside of many others - the sin of Gluttony and Sloth in his father’s case, who felt far too unwilling to get off the couch and do anything but drink and eat himself to a certain and premature death - couldn’t even bother to conduct basic hygiene - growing a beard which was wooly, sticky and sweaty most of time, ironically leaving Joseph to muse that that’s no doubt where both he and Jacob got the heredetary habit from, alongside John who was trying to immiatate and aesthetically follow in their footsteps, yet to no success. Their mother on the other hand - hers was the sin of Wrath and Envy. Both respectively. Wrath thanks to the type of life they all mutually lived, mostly penniless, indebted, depraved and sickly and undereducated - trailer trash, some would call them - her mother would call it failure - her husband’s, Jacob’s, John’s, Joseph’s, her own - feeling in turn jealousy, anger, intolerance towards everyone else who wasn’t like them, everyone she deemed better, more succesful, more advanced - the grass was always greener on the other side - she implemented violence because she need to have vegeance on someone for all of that - so did their father in equal measure - only activity willing to indulge in being a good beating - if their sins were their legacy, this was it’s original breeding nest. The only home he, Jacob and John had right now - only place Joseph felt he could share his discoveries with Jacob. His, as he found, gift. Purpose.

 

 

 

 

Now, Jacob was always his own, personal leaning-rock.

Always his protector - the one he went to when things became hard.

Wheather it was a scraped knee or to hide a dead body, literally speaking.

Always his support - being the oldest one, and now, after the war, his champion too.

If he could turn to someone for understanding, for empathy - it would precisely be him.

But, the perplexed look on his face when they sat down on their family dinner table, well -

Arms crossed, opposite of each other, Jacob sitting where their father once sat.

No food, no drinks, no dishes between them, just the empty, flat surface.

Dark cherry-wood, riddled with cigarette burns and knife scratches.

Jacob’s cold, enraged gaze told a different story altogether.

There was mistrust, injury almost - but, no warmth.

Not the way Joseph had anticipated.

His big brother has actually changed drastically.

Went from David fighting Goliath to being a Goliath himself.

 

 

 

 

_-”You think I buy into this - what - God bullshit and all that!? You think God gives a fuck!? Where was God out in Iraq!? Huh!? You think God was there when we were shooting and fighting and spilling our guts out!? Those men were losing legs, swallowing pills upon pills and shaking and PTSD-ing the fuck out us all and you think God was there for those poor suckers!? For the families waiting for them at home only to find them as broken men!? You for real right now!? You think God was out there in the desert when I was -”_

__

__

 

 

__

His large, bukly fists smashed the table loudly as he got up akin to a force of nature, ready for a fight almost immediately - a professional deformation of sorts on his behalf - not that this would be the first time they did this though - physical confrontations, battle, debating, arguing one another, fire versus fire - pointing out the window towards some undisclosed direction in space to put a special empasis to his point, his eyes blazing green in anger - the sin of Wrath, right there - Jacob was mad and hurt and carrying a jar full of ghosts inside of his heart - all one had to do is shake it and seven devils would manifest themselves in his face. He did some things in the war he wasn’t proud of, Joseph knew. Joseph understood. Joseph wasn’t here to judge, he was here to guide. He was here to love the sinners, not chastise them. He went through his trials. But again, they all did - that didn’t diminish their destiny in the slightest. If anything, it enchanced it. And neither Miller, neither Iraq, neither their parents, neither his daughter and wife, rest in peace, would take that way from them.

__

__

__

 

_-”God is everywhere, Jacob. In every bullet. In every grain of sand. He is in this house right now - all you have to do is listen closely.”-_

__

__

 

 

Joseph got up himself, mimicking his mannerisms.

Looking up at the cobweb cowered cieling and raising his fingers up.

The wind through the torn roof chiming in to break the silence - a distant dog bark in the neighbourhood.

Someone wishing some goodnight just down the street - a distant car engine roar.

The slight, eerie cracking of the worn, unwashed floor board under their feet.

The fly buzzing somewhere over their heads, caught between the pipes.

The water dripping out of the old, greasy sink above the dishwasher.

Even Jacob’s impatient intakes of breath, in and out, in and out.

 

__

 

It was all God - all around them.

__

__

__

_-”Look, I get it, Joe. You were traumatized. Shit happened. You started imaging nonsense to cope - you were the middle one and the stuff with ma’ and pa’ - it hit you hard. I get it. We all have ways to cope. But, mine don’t include thinking I’m the next incarnation of Jesus! Ya’ll miss me with that delusional crap! Not after what happened to your kid! Fuck it! You could’ve come to me and I would’ve helped you out financially, but no - you took the full retard road! You were babies! What were ya’ll out doing going raw anyway!? Ever heard of condoms!? Fuckin’ hell! Ya’ll stupid!?”-_

__

__

 

 

Jacob boomed bluntly, and yes, it stung Joseph a little.

Maybe a little less then it was appropriate of him, actually.

Having his own family mentioned in such a way, but what hurt more -

What hurt even more was his rampant Nihilism, his lack of belief in anything in particular.

Miracles, angels, saints, martyrs, psalms - none of those things phased him.

None of those things touched him - Jacob has lost God.

He has lost his spark, his youthful spirit.

He lost Him several times over too, Joseph knew.

At home when he was exchanging fists with their father.

Defending him and John from scorn, from dehumanization.

And in the wasteland, with the wolves and endless miles into nothingness.

In the trenches and base camps and marching up and down took it’s toll on his soul.

He came back to America worldweary and heavy - bearing an invisible cross on his back.

 

 

 

 

Jacob once said that he spent years out in every street in hell and never once has he found God.

And if anything, Joseph lamented for him because God was here with them, right now - _in him._

And all it took was finally coming home in order to find him - such a simple solution.

__

__

 

__

_-”In the desert, with Miller. When you tasted his flesh and walked out of the dunes alive against all odds, when everyone expected you to die - you felt God in your bones, didn’t you? You felt indestructible? You felt powerful? You felt changed? That right there, Jacob - that’s his influence.That right there, is Him.”-_

 

__

Words dripping from his tongue like ambrosia, Joseph slowly walked around the table despite the fact that Jacob had the appearance of an angry, feral bull, ready to run him through at a moments notice - like a beast would a matador with a red scarf - the only one who didn’t fear him, didn’t get the chills, who wasn’t on his guard around him - didn’t label him an utilitarian, mediocre term like “creepy” - merely staring him down darkly like he was contemplating punching him square in the jaw when Joseph finally reached him and placed the palm of his hand on the place where Jacob’s heart was, beneath the stained layers of camo and used, oversized sweatshirts - his name tag still on the left side of his chest - J. Seed - a thing of pride, clearly - a thing of honor - Joseph knew exactly what the rush of killing felt like, being able to imagine what taking his friend’s life must’ve been like for his brother - what emotions flooded Jacob’s mind before and after, how weak yet strong he felt, indomitable, how savage, how recklessly wild - because he too has been there. Not only with the tubes and the pink blanket and that hospital room and that angelic little face and God’s ultimate test, but also afterwards - he was no stranger to being jailed for his sins. While Jacob was off fighting a war he deemed his own, Joseph was serving time, not just once at that. He’s killed and he’s ravaged and he’s done the unthinkable - Joseph always felt he must first experience every sin imaginable before he could step up on any platform and preach against it. Who would know of how to combat vices better then a man who’s experienced every and any? So, this whole stale, old Miller business? Joseph didn’t need to be explained twice what Jacob went through in Iraq. He also understood that he was bitter about Joseph’s own daughter, well, _passing on_. He seemed excited about that. About being an uncle one day. Having a niece. But, it wasn’t meant to be. It wasn’t written. Nothing was, usually. Except this.

 

 

 

This, here and now, was written.

__

__

 

_-”That’s a whole lotta bullshit, Joseph and you know it! You know I can’t stand religious fanatics and extremists! Very type we fought back there! What are you, some Al Qaeda reject!? Fuck off! I’mma sleep in the truck tonight! You’re free to your haunted shack, “God’s from Georgia” nonsense! And don’t come spookin’ my ass in the middle of the night! I’ve a gun! I’mma shoot your ass!”-_

****

__

__

Jacob practically pushed him off of himself, shoving him backwards with ease.

Stepping off, kicking the chair aside, tossing a meaningful look back and slamming the door.

Muttering something incoherently to himself, leaving them seperated for the night.

Getting some shut-eye in the backyard, in the old, run-down car.

Unwilling to share the same roof with him, appearantly.

In the backseat, no doubt - the house suddenly quiet.

Joseph didn’t really fear the treat of violence.

Guns, knives, crowbars, fists.

Neither did Jacob, in that sense, they were equal.

But, if his older brother was insistant of not understanding the word of God -

Joseph was quite willing to speak a language he did understand - the language of war.

So, following him into the overgrown, grassy lawn surronded by trees.

__He pulled out the pistol he had tucked into the back of his belt._ _

__Pointing the cold iron to the back of Jacob’s head._ _

Stopping him then and there, in his tracks.

Right in front of papa’s old truck.

 How very ironic indeed.

__

 

 

_-”I have a gun too, brother. Always do.”-_

__

 

 

Joseph spoke triumphantly, a sly smile forming on his lips as he kept his aim firm and in place.

God lived in every bullet ever fired, alright - God lived in the steadiness of his outstretched hand too, right now.

God was going to be living in the pulpy brain bloodsplatter on the windshield of the venichle in case he ever pulls the trigger.

But, he’d still much rather have God be living in Jacob’s own service to him, as his personal Holy Crusader.

He had no particular use from the dead - he had so much use from the living, on the other hand.

His logic was just that singular and driven in this moment - it was either _yes_ or _no_.

No maybes, no middle grounds, no going back and forth - one or the other.

An ultimatum, the only form of negotiation outside of brute strength

 

 

 

__

_-”Well, at least you’re no pussy, I’ll give you that, you utter fuckin' lunatic. Bless your heart.”-_

 

 

 

Jacob threw him an amused look from across his shoulder, never moving an inch, smiling in mirth - Joseph joined him.

 

They laughed together, in unison, for the first time in years.


	2. Chapter 2

ｆ    ａ    ｉ    ｔ    ｈ

 ✞

Torn, White Knuckles

 

* * *

 

 

 

He was always drawn to liminal spaces;

The odd and the strange - parking lots at night.

Derelict forests, seemingly endless - a sea of pine trees.

Old neighborhoods after midnight and the sounds of a police siren.

Dark, abandoned alleyways - misty highways - the type he used to hitchhike.

Some seedy, greasy bar were all the patrons were less then amiable people.

The bottom of the lake encrusted in murky, green water, ever so still.

Forgotten churches down in the South, wooden and collapsed.

Overgrown in moss and grass - with a semi-torn roof.

A statue of Jesus crowned in bird nests.

 

 

 

 

 

Most commonplace individuals would fear such places, avoid them on a natural survival instinct and a healthy dosage of street smarts - because they were raised to recognize the chills as the first signs of danger - hoping not to fall pray to some thug, some crook - someone with bad intentions at heart - someone to drive a knife to through their belly and pocket their wallet or anything else they had on themselves, as everyone always warned - but, Joseph was always inclined to such spots for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, ever since childhood - he was attracted to the unusual and the odd and he found himself wondering with no prohibitions or chills running through his spine, as he believed, a testament to his uniqueness manifesting itself in a lack of any terror, even now, mere weeks into arriving at Pastro Jerome’s parish as a drifter, finding himself at home in the humble abode offered for usage, unable to find peace of mind during the dark of the evening. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t rest. So, he walked. To no end. The local school’s eerily empty grandstand and a row of frozen bleachers left to stay empty and closed off over the winter season, covered in a white line of snow and a torn banner with the mascot of Hope County’s prime player team, the Cougars, here to greet him under a dim, flickering street light - pale as sin - here to serve as another liminal space to suit Joseph’s fancy.

 

 

 

 

 

Now, he knew she had the tendency of coming here all on her own.

Climbing over the fence, hiding between the benches.

He’s heard her sobbing in the pitch blackness.

A girl, no younger then twelve.

Small, ginger-haired and lithe.

Almost like he’s heard her cry from across worlds - across planes.

Pitiful he found himself relating to whatever ailed her, that feeling of isolation.

The used heroin needles scattered here and there in her little hiding spot.

This graffiti riddled den, reeking of cigarette smoke and cheap liquor.

The thick, odorous metallic scent of blood - faint, but present.

She’s been cutting herself down here in the rubble.

He used to do the same around her age.

When he first heard the voice.

When it was too much to bear.

 

 

 

 

When he tried to hurt himself to make it go away - it didn’t.

 

 

 

 

_-”Why would you hate yourself like that? God must’ve loved you so much when he created you - to see you hurt yourself that way - after he’s put so much effort into you. He’d weep.”-_

 

 

 

 

He spoke when he found her huddled in a corner in a leather jacket and jeans - a transparent attempt at early teenage rebellion and appearing strong, a curtain of hair and a tear-wrenched pair of big eyes, her wrists riddled in thin, red lines with a bloodied razor by her side, her sleeves rolled up and stained crimson, nearly making her jump in surprise of hearing his voice when she realized she wasn’t alone like she’s imagined - her sanctuary from the world - the look she offered him akin a deer caught in the headlights, unsure if she was to panic, smile and pretend like she wasn’t sobbing down here around one o’clock the morning, become agitated at the interruption or simply run for her life - Joseph knew her family - her father and her mother - he had a keen eye for observation - ever since he came to Hope County he’s found himself observing and analyzing just about everyone around him, the inhabitants, the locals, assessing, weighting their fears and flaws and sins - the sin of her family was the sin of Lust. The unnatural act of father doing unto his daughter what even the devil himself would’ve frowned upon - a rumor only whispered in silence. Another pain he’s experienced first hand at least several times by now. Her innocence was ripped away from her until she couldn’t feel clean any longer without anguish, self-loathing or wrath. An all too familiar predicament. He felt what she felt on his skin right now, as he extended his hand to her, causing her to bolt upwards.

 

 

 

 

_-”Stay away! I’m gonna scream! Who the hell are you!? ”-_

 

 

 

 

She shrieked, raising her hands instinctively, gaze looking left and right, searching for a way out.

Lesson number one - you never enter an enclosed space you can’t quickly escape from.

 

 

 

 

_-”Someone who understands, Rachel.”-_

 

 

 

 

He spoke her name with certainity and softness, like a father speaks to a child after she wakes from a nightmare seeking comfort, remembering her name from Pastor Jerome’s concerns on domestic violence in the area and how nobody reacts, how nobody cares and how his hands are so full of work that he cannot possibly focus on each and every individual in the Parish in the same time no matter how much he’d like to, especially when it’s his calling to be the spiritual rock of his community - nobody reported these things in Hope County - primarily because the law enforcement tended not to focus on places they deemed “backwater dumps” when so many important issues had their attention and second of all - a thing of mentality - people were closed-off. Private. Isolated, each in their own little bubble. A dispute between families was dispute between families. A man disciplined his children and his wife because he deemed it was his duty to. To entangle a third party - was, well - unessecary. Messy. A thing of wounded manhood and pride. A thing were old transgressions seep into the brightness of day the very minute an officer points a flashlight to it. Men rape their daughters. And men keep it a secret. Joseph knew - Joseph brought it to her right away and the waterworks came. Rachel was easy to break down. Like a tower of cards. Easy to get her talk over the days he’s found her waiting for him after the encounter in the very spot, sneaking out to see him.

 

 

 

 

 

She was love-starved at this point, forgotten and so very eager for a conversation.

Even with someone who’s only just arrived to town - especially with someone like that - unbiased and new.

Someone with a fresh take to things - someone who possibly wouldn’t judge her.

Buy into the gossip that it was her fault her father was inappropriate.

That she was a minx like any other minx - Eve’s primordial sin.

That she was a liar, an attention-seeker, a fake.

 

 

 

 

 

_-”Mine were just the same, you know. Back in Georgia, we fought so many times I lost count. I fought them. My brothers fought them. Then, my brothers fought me. Then we fought in the homes they put us in. Then each other. Then we all fought ourselves. In the end, everyone fought everybody and nobody was content with it. Nothing was achieved, yet so much was lost. That was not God’s way. That is not the way it was meant to be. So we turned away from it all and into the light. We never fought again.”-_

 

 

 

 

He placed his hand on Rachel’s tiny, bruised shoulder as he spoke, squeezing ever-so-slightly, smiling, albeit bitterly, as he recalled all the went down, all the beatings, all the torment, every time he was knocked out cold, every time Jacob stood up to their father, every time John ended up taking the short end of the stick and the blame for absolutely everything - an easy target for harassment, youngest and sweetest as he was - their mother’s yelling, shrill voice, the threats and the sleepless nights and the punishments and each every time the social workers promised to have them taken away - until one time, they really, truly did - then came the change of homes, the new environments, the lack of comforting, being pushed from here to there to everywhere and never having a place to call your own - looking at Rachel was like looking into a mirror - into his own damn self approximately thirty years ago or so - Joseph might have seemed like a Prophet talking to her - a living saint sitting on the bleachers in the middle of the night, possessing some sort of supernatural ability to read minds or to see into the past - an insidious force of nature, a god-given talent - truth of the matter was, there was no magic at work here, only personal experience. And they did keep saying that the child was a liar - but, so far, he’s spotted no lies and God if he wasn’t good at spotting those - not any directed towards him, anyway - Joseph assumed that if Rachel’s prone to lying and fabricating stories, it’s because the actual truth of things is too painful to face. Dissociation. An escape from reality. The only way she knew how. He’d put those traits to good use, he felt. He’d put her to good use.

 

 

 

 

_-”My dad, my mom, kids in school - I just - “_

 

 

 

She muttered shyly, timidly, struggling with words - gasps of breath breaking into sobs.

 

 

 

_-”I know.”-_

 

 

 

Joseph cut her off to ease her agony, knowing how hard it must’ve been to open up about this.

 

 

 

 

_“I wish I wasn’t me! I wish I was someone else! Anywhere else! I wish I could just disappear!”-_

 

 

 

 

She continued again, this time around, cutting him off instead - bold and brave girl - her anger finally erupting as she got up like she did the night when they first met in this exact place, pointing at herself in complete and utter disgust like she was ready to peal her own skin off right there and then and light it on fire, face twisting from the tears as she practically roared her lines, louder then Joseph’s ever witnessed her being before, the court terrain echoing in the night through the wired fence - the snow slowly starting to melt. When they started talking, it was deepest winter, now, they were on the edge of a cold, gloomy spring. New bruises and scars were visible on her here and there, shrouding her flesh in purple and blue markings - the beatings probably never stopped then. Nothing changed, except her own rage and the fact she was at a boiling point, ready to do something stupid. That, Joseph noted, was blazing hot in her eyes, mingled with a lone shiver. She needed a hug. So he gave her one, patting her on the back of the head as she did. She melted into it like she hasn’t been comforted in ages - and she probably hasn’t. It was so easy - so easy to sway the loveless. So smooth. Joseph felt like Jesus giving water to Ben Hur in the desert - powerful. Holy. Divine. Untouchable. She was opening up and embracing a practical stranger in the butt-fuck of nowhere at age twelve several hours past her curfew and she didn’t even notice. Or care. He was in jail various times, he’s told her. That didn’t stop her either. That was the power of being starved for affection.

 

 

 

 

 

_-”If being Rachel’s too hard, you can always be baptized anew and become someone else in God’s mercy, child. I was a nobody. From nowhere. With nothing. And then, I became everything. I was reborn.”-_

 

 

 

He’s whispered quietly, knowingly - never taking the palm of his hand away from her tender scalp.

Smoothing her hair and realizing how it reminded him of Jacob’s in color - almost like she was meant to be picked for this.

Already having the name Faith set aside for her once the previous four or five proved to be, well - unworthy.

She’d would do very well, he could tell - over the years - and all it took was kindness.

 

 

 

 

_-”Is that even possible, sir?”-_

 

 

 

She moved away from his chest and looked at him,  for once like a child her own age, genuinely curious, almost enthusiastic for once, after months of sadness.

His answer was simple, clipped, he didn’t need to explain everything to her now, here where they stood, tactician as he was.

Keep the hungry baited on the promise of revival and aliment - she’d come to see for herself.

In a liminal space outside of thought and reality.

 

 

 

 

_-”Yes. Yes, it is.”-_

 

 

 

 

He responded warmly, toying idly with her torn, white knuckles.


End file.
